Friday, July 25, 2008

Last night I was again accused of making things up by AM, even though I have proven time and time again that my tales are non-fiction. But today something incredible happened that even I wouldn’t believe unless I was shown the photographic proof. Fortunately, I carry a camera in my purse with my tissues and butterscotch candies.

Around 11:30 I was sitting in my car waiting for my turn in the car wash. Suddenly, a cute little sparrow landed on the hood and initiated an avian staring contest. But when it became clear that I was not going to be the first blinker, it got all huffy and started pecking the fuck out of the paint.

“Uhhh bird? What are you doing!!??!

I revved the engine but it did not flinch. I honked the horn. It looked up, bounced two baby bird steps toward the windshield and went back to pecking.

“Seriously!!! Bird, what’s the deal?”

I laid on the horn. It looked up again, gave me with of those quick birdlike head turns and gave me the stink eye. That’s when I died a little bit today. My insides turned black from a cocktail of pity, terror and the Five Guys I had for lunch.

Click along if you want to be majorly groaded out. And only if you are willing to sign a pledge that you will never walk around Falls Church without a Marine issued zombie neutralizing weapon.

The way this thing was acting at first led me to believe it may have rabies. But I don’t think birds can get rabies. Also, I don’t think rabies makes the top of your head fall off and exposes your brain or makes you hang out at a Jiffy Lube attacking cars.

I can’t imagine what happened to this poor thing to turn it into the flying dead. It only fluttered off after I accelerated quickly and slammed on the brakes, causing it to lose its balance. That came to me after remembering that I don’t have great balance when water gets trapped in my ear.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

It’s been more than a month since the gutter was ripped off our place by heavy rain, tearing away part of the roof and cleaving several chunks of masonry. While it looked terrible from the outside, who could argue that an indoor waterfall, cracks in wall, bubbling paint and a basement full of muddy stinkwater doesn’t raise the resale value.

Well, the G does. So after several professional phone calls from me and some blistering emails from her, we are finally getting someone from the condo association to fix it. Not that I couldn’t fix it myself but we do pay condo fees for something other than shitty flower arrangements and access to no pool.

The work will require patching up a crack that runs the height of the entire wall and allows us to see into the neighbor’s kitchen and seeps blood maybe. All we need to do is kick back and supply the same color paint so they can match the walls. Too bad that bucket was sitting in the same water that flooded the basement in the first place and got rusted to hell. I have since poured it directly into the storm drain with in the hopes of killing every blue crab in the Chesapeake Bay.

So it was off to the Home Despot to try to match the wall paint with their magic paint matching machine. And since we couldn’t bring the wall itself it’s a good thing that the water damaged has enabled us to tear huge sheets of paint directly from the surface all the way down to the base plaster. Tastes good too.

The G got tasked with standing in line since she is the expert on colors. (She experienced “red” when someone cut in front of her and then acted like they didn’t see the huge line) I got tasked with goofing off in the tools section. And it’s there that I found the most unnecessary piece of hardware ever cast from the minds of NFL Players Inc.

I can’t say I’m a particular fan of Ray Lewis but given the option there is no other player I’d want on my house key. And I wasn’t given an option because it was the only player they had, for some reason. While there were other “sports” (re: NASCAR) themed keys, Ray-Ray was the only athlete making a personal appearance.

If this were 800 years ago, this key would obviously be magical. Either Ray Lewis’s spirit is now protecting our house or it allows him to enter unmolested and slay us like hobbit-shaped pillows at the Prancing Pony. Its only power today is to break off in the lock and ruin your day.

*********In this space, I have attempted to make four closing jokes about football and sharp, dangerous tools and murder. Although none of them have been particularly funny or satisfying the punch line to all of them is Ray Carruth. Ray Carruth, ladies and gentlemen, Ray Carruth. *********

Friday, July 18, 2008

I don’t go in for musicals for the same reason I don’t go to hockey games or the condo association board meetings. I’m sure they’re fun and people dance in the aisles and many parking issues get resolved but they are not my thing. I’m not against them and certainly wouldn’t bust anyone’s chops after his girlfriend makes him go see the Man From La Mancha with his probable future mother-in-law.

As a result, I know nothing about staged musicals. If the category on Jeopardy is "Broadway Musicals" I’ll guess Jean Valjean for every question because it’s always the answer to one of them. (The same goes for Trivia Pursuit. David Mamet is the answer to any question about playwrights.)

For example, I know Rent takes place in New York. And I know that I look like one of the guys from the movie version. And I think someone has or gets AIDS. (Probbaly my character.) But beyond that my only frame of reference is from a brief Simpson’s spoof and the commercials that were on WTOP the last time it came to town. Based on the song that played repeatedly for several weeks, I’m guessing the play is about math. Or at least counting how many minutes make up some longer amount of time.

The same with Sweeney Todd. I didn’t see the movie. But I know it’s bloody and yesterday’s NY Times crossword puzzle* has a clue about a song from the play and the answer is “The Worst Pies in London.” The worst pie I ever had in London was made out of eels. Eel pie. Now that's a play I'm willing to see.

Mama Mia is another one. I assumed it was about ABBA and ABBA only. The drama amongst the group’s members didn’t reach Fleetwood Mac levels but I’m sure in the hands of a clever writer and a catalogue of dance hits you could draw together a pretty fun show. But the reviews in the papers today shatter that illusion. It’s about a woman who’s so promiscuous, with so many sexy English sex partners that she doesn’t know who the father of her daughter is. And it’s in Greece.

Now I’m all for loose woman with looser morals. But it gets dangerously close to the poor standards set by Grease, for my tastes. The moral of Grease is that if you want to be popular you should change who you are and put out. And then you get to fly away in a magic car. Even as a child I knew that the ending of that movie was setting a bad example. I don’t want to have to someday explain to my potential daughter that to be popular you need to sleep with Colin Firth. Although she will have my permission to eff Stellan Skarsgård.

Oh, guess who forgot to get tickets until the only ones left were at like, 1145 pm? ARGG. I remain unconvinced about Aaron Eckhart. I really want to see this at IMAX, so maybe it's not that big of a deal that I didn't get tickets.

In summary: My spouse is busy drinking beers tonight, I have no Batman tickets, and all I really want is to eat pizza. Is GHuts pizza any good? Can I go on a Friday night and eat one all by myself? That's weird, right? Right.

Oh! Since I never blog anymore because I have nothing to talk about, remind me to tell you all about yoga next week and how hilarious it is.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

I read a great book called The Curse of Narrows last year. It’s about the horrific munitions explosion in Halifax Harbor prior the US’s involvement in World War I. It’s still one of the largest non-nuclear explosions ever experienced. Several thousand people were killed and nearly 10,000 injured.

Some of the most amazing parts of the event were the stories of people who were standing near the shore when the ship blew up and got thrown hundreds of yards into the air by the concussion. Most of these folks were killed. But a few landed without injury atop the steep hills that surround the harbor. All the energy from the blast was expended pushing them off the ground and up into the air. By the time they started to fall back toward the earth, the earth had literally risen to meet them. The only outward sign of this assault was that all their clothes had been blown off.

I assume the same thing will be at work here. You will amazingly find yourself at the top of the theoretical hill. But it will require the destruction of a crucial wartime shipping center and you’re gonna be naked.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Unlike a certain unnamed brother-in-law I have, when the Cabbage Patch Kid craze infected this nation’s Christmases, I resisted the urge to ask for one. Actually, I didn’t even know little boys were even allowed to own one and I was astounded by the few male friends who tried to hide their yarny-haired friends when I came over to play with real toys like action figures and fire and rocks. Sure, stuffed animals are cool but CPKs were dolls. And not molded plastic dolls with tiny plastic crossbows, but real girly dolls.

I took a poll of the ten closest or most IM-able people* near me and here are their responses:

1. Ariel Alla2. Ashley Ollivet3. Andy4. Glen Allen5. Lillian6. My own name 7. I can't remember. I can tell you though that I had a 10 minute dance routine choreographed to the Cabbage Patch doll record then my brother threw the record up in the air and it shattered on the ground and we could never find another one, and I tried all manner of toy soundtracks for a new dance, but it was never the same.8. I never had one. I loathed them and found them creepy.9. My mom couldn’t find a girl one so she bought a boy, put a dress on it and said it was girl with short hair. I believed her too even though it was named Curtis.10. My regular Cabbage Patch Kid was Addie Chrissy and my premie was Cara Faith.

That last response is what got me thinking about Cabbage Patch Kids again. I don’t hang out in neonatal intensive care units so I hadn’t heard the term “premie” since the mid-80s. And its definition was only framed by that exposure. The Cabbage Patch Premies, as far I could remember, were balder, cuter and much more in demand than the normal toddler versions. People were crazy about them. Literally crazy. People got trampled to death at Montgomery Wards or Zayre’s or Best when those stores would open at 9am on Sundays.

I have a good friend whose pregnancy developed complications and the baby had to be delivered by C-section 3 months early. Her daughter has a host of complications and the doctors initially estimated her survival rate at around 10%. It’s been a week and she weighs 2 pounds. Her chances of making it to next week have only been raised minimally. She can’t breathe on her own and her nervous system is so maladjusted that she can’t stand to be touched.

The tiny infant is considered a premie. So are the other dozen children in her NICU and they are all in bad shape. So why was it, 20 some years ago, that Premie dolls were so desired? Why were they even made? The initial run of Cabbage Patch Kids were just that, kids. If they wanted a second version, why not make Cabbage Patch Toddlers or Newborns? Why jump all the way down the age ladder to children that, according to their own definition, should not even be born yet?

I know this question is decades late. But my mom’s typewriter couldn’t access the internet back then.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Hi womanfriends, if anyone ever wants to come to the OBX with me for a random long weekend, be forewarned that apparently my idea of beach "good times" includes marathon sessions of "Intervention" on A&E and talks about how migraine headaches are caused! Also, Hellboy.

The sunburn extends in long stripes and splotches, including my armpits, but nothing too serious since I am a gramma who likes to languish in the shade of an umbrella most of the time.

My parents/aunts/uncle overlapped our Ladies Weekend 08 in the beachhaus by a day or so. We played a lot of dominoes, watched "Steel Magnolias", and I brought home an entire pork roast (?) my mother left behind for the three of us, afraid we aren't getting enough iron in our diets. And we ate barbeque. It was delicious.

Also, my aunts were on a teasing tear towards my poor momma, taunting her that she's apparently a prude for not taking tequila shots with them before going to the beach in the mornings. Ladies, ladies. It was 10:30 AM.

Friday, July 11, 2008

I had the complete opposite outcome when I went to the blood bank yesterday. Not only did they gladly take it, they discovered its properties are so desired that they pretty much asked me if it would be okay if they harvest a few more pints to top off some of their tanks. It was like going to Jiffy Lube if the Lube were to take the oil out it out your healthy car and give it to one that had been in an accident. Actually, it's nothing like Jiffy Lube.

I can’t ever remember what it is about my blood that so good but they always want moar and they call the house hours after the 56 day waiting period is over asking if they can get another taste. I assume it’s because I have too much. The other donors were given a box of juice and some cookies. They gave me, and this is all true, three bags of cookies, orange juice, a Boost protein shake, one of those towels with the hooks for your golf bag, a canvas satchel with the name of the hospital on it and two stress relief balls shaped like Finding Nemo. They want my blood that much.

Also unlike C, the nurses had no qualms about talking about menstruation. I was inquiring about iron deficiencies and what someone could eat to raise their levels. The winners:

1. Oysters2. Clams3. Liver4. Blackstrap molasses, for some reason.

Oyster-Liver-Molasses puree. It’s what’s for anemic dinner.

Anyblah, I also asked the nurse why women are more likely to have a low iron count and she said, with no sense of bashfulness, IT’S BECAUSE WOMEN ARE ALWAYS LOSING BLOOD ALWAYS BECAUSE THEIR PERIODS ARE ALWAYS ALL THE TIME!!1! And that most women are wanting for molasses.

Typical for a man who owns Hong Kong’s most popular New York-themed pool hall, my normal source for translation has gone missing. So I’m turning it over to the internets. Can anyone decipher this sign that another friend found in Hokkaido?

I'm hoping it isn't too offensive since it's about to be embossed on a t-shirt.

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

An update: we've been painting our house (obnoxious alien puke green!); a guy who looks like the entire world's little brother was caught jacking it at a Mickey D's drive-thru near our neighborhood, ewww; my crazy relatives descend on the East Coast for an ENTIRE WEEK starting Independence Day, so go stock up on tinfoil hats and register for handguns today, everyone; the dog is wearing a red bandana these days as part of his summer style and it looks kind of awesome, like he might hold up a bank at any moment; the new Beck is pretty okay; I went to yoga last night and got in touch with some chakras (particularly my third eye) or whatevs, also I am the least flexible person to ever participate in any kind of yoga class ever; I've been mostly living off of ice cream sandwiches; and Moonstruck is free to watch on Hulu dot com.

also, question: i have a credit for $125 for an airline who shall not be named (NORTHWESTNORTHWESTNORTHWEST). It says "non-transferrable" on my email. I assume this means I can't use it to buy a ticket for my bro to use since he's a giant fucking crybaby, or use it to send anyone into outer space or anything?

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

When I was ten, the East Coast family took a trip out to Iowa to see the grandparents and old farming homestead. I don’t remember much from that specific trip. But I do recall that my 13-year-old second cousin had an enormous crate of the most magnificent fireworks ever smuggled across the Minnesota border, his dad’s lighter and a copy of License To Ill on cassette. Zombie Mark Twain could not have dreamed up a more carefree summer scenario.

The very first bottle rocket we launched traveled about 10 feet in the air, turned abruptly and flew directly into the enormous 1500 gallon propane tank that all farmers in Iowa seem to have on their property, for some farming reason.

My cousin took off running. I stood there with my arms splayed, like Kent* in Real Genius, ready to be enveloped in God’s soul-cleansing firestorm of rusty tractor parts and dead hog carcasses. Either that or the corn-filled silo could have gone up and I’d be covered in popcorn, also like Real Genius.

Nothing happened, of course. The tiny bottle rocket harmlessly bounced off the giant, reinforced tank and popped delicately in the cool summer grass. But for a split second, it was almost like this.

Next time I'll tell you about my second cousin's bitchin car stereo system and how the only vaguely hip-hop song he had was "Set Adrift On Memory Bliss" so he had to cruise around Iowa blasting PM Dawn.

Actually, that's the whole story.

*Remember in Michael Clayton when Tilda Swinton hired the hit men to kill the crazy, naked lawyer and then George Clooney? One of those hit men was Kent! I know!